


what poetry's for

by the_ragnarok



Series: cat!Jon [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Communication, Hair Brushing, Internalized Acephobia, Jealousy, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Pet Play, Rimming, Subspace, Trans Martin Blackwood, Undiagnosed autistic character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22543072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Fun things happen when Jon goes into subspace.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: cat!Jon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622008
Comments: 39
Kudos: 618





	what poetry's for

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Mx_carter for beta 💓
> 
> Also, this owes some mild inspiration to [this beautiful bit of fanart](https://everchased.tumblr.com/post/189163538602/got-a-very-good-anon-suggestion-involving-jon)

A ball rolls next to Martin's feet, and he bends to pick it up. He looks around and sees Tim, mask on, kneeling with his hands in begging position. "Fetch?" Martin asks, and Tim nods with enthusiasm.

Before Martin can throw the ball more than twice, he is distracted by Jon, back from whatever inscrutable cat business he has at romps when he's not playing with Martin. "I'm going home," Jon says, to the room in general for all Martin can tell.

What's the saying? Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is a pattern? Martin may not be the most observant fellow around, but let it not be said he can't recognize a pattern when it hits him on the head. He follows Jon out after bidding Tim a hurried goodbye. "If you want me to come home with you," he says, "you could invite me first."

Jon halts and turns to Martin. His posture is stiff, but he says, "You're always invited," like it's nothing, like it's obvious. He keeps going without commenting on the large, sappy grin spreading on Martin's face.

* * *

There's no point in beating around the bush, so Martin asks, "Are you jealous of Tim?"

Jon, who was up till now bonelessly slumped on the sofa, goes ramrod straight. His expression shifts rapidly through a whole bunch of different unnamed emotions. Martin has no idea what's going through his mind.

When Jon speaks, that doesn't help, either, because he says, "Tim would probably have sex with you if you asked."

"That," Martin points out, strangled, "is not what I asked. At all."

Jon hunches. "I don't see why he wouldn't. You're very nice to look at."

Martin blushes. "Thank you, but I still don't understand what that has to do with anything."

Jon gets up to pace. Martin watches him from the sofa. "You like sex," Jon says, almost an accusation. "Or, I mean, some kinds. And you haven't been having any with me."

"That's true," Martin says slowly, torn between fascination with Jon's mental processes and apprehension.

"So it stands to reason that you should have sex with other people," Jon says, completely certain and dead wrong.

"Jon. No." Martin pinches the bridge of his nose. "One, even if I wanted to, I'm capable of not fucking other people when I'm exclusive with one person." They haven't even agreed to be exclusive, but that's hardly relevant, because, "Two, I'm not really interested in sleeping with anyone else. Right now my focus is on you, and that's where I like it. If you don't want to have sex, then that means no sex for me, and that's fine."

"I could want sex," Jon protests. "If I get in subspace."

Martin's eyebrows rise. "Could you." He eyes Jon sceptically. "I'm pretty sure I've seen you in subspace plenty of times, and you never seemed particularly horny."

"I hate that word." Jon's nose scrunches. It's adorable. "And no, you haven't. Just the once." He raises a hand. "I'm not talking about, ah, when I'm being a cat. Subspace is when I get all clingy." His mouth twists with distaste. "When I offered you oral sex."

Oh. That, Martin does recall. "I thought you were having a panic attack."

Jon shrugs uncomfortably. "The two aren't that far apart, for me." He looks away, as if the corner of the room holds something fascinating. "Nothing makes sense, when I'm like that. I can't tell what's happening around me except for the one person I focus on. It's all just... shapes and sounds, no meaning."

Martin blinks. "Huh. Sounds a lot like descriptions I've heard of sensory processing issues."

Jon waves it off irritably. "I don't care what it's called, I just know I can't stand it when it happens. If the person I focus on is touching me, then I still can't make sense of anything, but I don't have to worry about it."

Concern wells up in Martin. "And then you like having sex?" he asks. "Or... are you just okay with having sex, in return for being touched?"

Jon makes a low grumbling noise. "It can be like that," he admits. "It's just... I like to be touched, then, and I don't particularly care how. But if it's hurting me, that's a lot worse than it ordinarily would be."

Imagining it is enough to make Martin flinch. "Yes, of course. No hurting. Pain bad."

Jon glares at him, but continues to say, albeit stuffily, "Giving oral makes my jaw hurt." He seems a bit defensive about that. "And like I said, I can't bottom for intercourse. But I'm fine with manual stimulation, giving or receiving, and frottage can be nice."

Martin has a quick intervention with himself, wherein he explains to himself that finding Jon's use of clinical language cute isn't a reason to grab him into a hug until he squeaks. When he's done, he says, "You didn't seem in a very good position to say what you wanted, back then."

Jon huffs. "I hereby give you standing consent for the acts I described whenever I'm in subspace. Will that suffice?"

Martin hesitates. He doesn't want to push, or make Jon uncomfortable. But he is curious. "You didn't say anything about receiving oral. Where do you stand on that?"

That seems to stymie Jon. "No idea," he says, after a moment's consideration. "I suppose I'm willing to try."

Martin gapes. It's frequently that he wants to stab Jon's shitty ex, but this is the first time it's occurred to him to feel _sad_ for the man. If Jon's responses to being blown are anything on the magnitude of his responses when being petted, Jon's ex missed out on a beautiful experience and probably never even realized. When Martin recovers, he says, "And rimming? Did you try that? Receiving, I mean."

"I have not, and I'm willing to try that as well."

Martin shakes his head and sags into the couch. "Oh my God, I can't believe nobody's tried to eat your arse. That's a crime against humanity."

"I barely even have an arse," Jon says dryly. "Or so I've been told."

"That's not true!" Martin draws up indignantly. "You have a perfectly lovely arse. Small, yes, but quality over quantity."

"I will not," Jon says, "fight you over the honor of my arse." 

"Good, because I'd win. I have destiny on my side."

"You have silliness on your side," Jon says, and changes the subject to sleeping arrangements.

* * *

Martin comes to meet Jon at his office after his shift. "Have you considered," he asks Jon, "that if you're clocking out later than me for an office job, you might be working too hard?"

Jon shrugs and mumbles, "I'm trying to do a good job."

He can do that without running himself into the ground, but Martin doubts this opinion will be welcome. They spend the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence.

"Do I have something in my hair?" Jon asks once they're sat, at the fourth time Martin's gaze strays to his loose ponytail.

"You have a rubber band in your hair." Martin tries very hard not to sound accusing.

It's just - he likes Jon's hair. Likes the heft of it, the thickness, likes the silver strands gleaming at Jon's temples. Every time he sees Jon yanking a comb through it, or pushing it back from his face with whatever ridiculous thing he finds, it makes Martin itch to take better care of it.

Jon shrugs one shoulder. "It was getting in my eyes and I didn't have a hairband." He tugs on it and grimaces. "I should get it cut, anyway. What?" he says, to Martin's horrified expression.

Martin tries to hide it, guiltily. "I mean, it's your hair. You get to do what you like."

Jon blinks. "You like it." That does sound like an accusation. "If you like it so much, why don't _you_ brush it?"

"Any time you like," Martin says, the words rolling from his mouth with fervent honesty.

Jon purses his mouth. "Want to come home with me and fix up my hair?"

Martin blushes. "I thought you'd never ask." He tries to sound like he's joking. He fails miserably. Thankfully, Jon doesn't seem to mind.

* * *

At Jon's flat, Jon turns to him and asks, "How do you want me?"

_Every conceivable way, and some that can't be imagined,_ Martin thinks. "Why don't I sit on the sofa, and you sit on the floor?" Martin sits down, spreads his legs and gestures to the spot on the floor between his feet. Jon puts a pillow down and settles on it comfortably, leaning back against the sofa.

Martin has a brush and a hairband next to him. He wanted some leave-in conditioner, too, but Jon didn't have any. First thing, Martin sets about extracting the rubber band from Jon's hair with minimal casualties. He fishes out his pocket knife to snip it, which makes getting it out of Jon's hair without pulling half of it out much easier.

Then, Martin starts at the tips, holding Jon's hair in his fist so that Jon won't feel the pull. When the brush goes easily, Martin goes higher. It's slow going, but soothing work, a repetitive rhythm that Martin can sink into.

It occurs to him to wonder, when he's moving the brush all the way down from the root, at Jon's patience. Martin did not peg him for the type of man to sit unmoving as someone took forever with his external appearance. A moment's attention reveals that Jon isn't sitting straight, either, but slumped against Martin's leg.

Brow furrowing in worry, Martin says, "Jon?"

Jon is slow to respond. His head lolls back, and he looks up at Martin with a faint smile on his lips. Instead of answering, he hums a questioning tone.

Understanding slams into Martin. "Jon?" he asks, to be on the safe side, "Are you in subspace?"

Jon's nod is slow, as well. He looks peaceful, one arm looped around Martin's leg.

Martin's heart constricts painfully in his chest. "I won't stop touching you. Alright?" In response, Jon rubs his cheek against Martin's knee. Martin gulps down a breath and finishes brushing Jon's hair and tying it back.

Once he's done, it occurs to him that the floor must be uncomfortable. "How about lying down in bed, would you like that?"

Jon nods, but makes no attempt to get up. His hold on Martin tightens.

Huh. "Must be difficult to walk when the world makes no sense, right?" Martin asks. Jon nods. Martin considers. "What if I carried you?" Another nod.

Scooping Jon up from the floor takes barely any effort. Christ, he needs to feed the man. Maybe he'll deign to take snacks from Martin's hand, if he cut them up small enough. Martin shakes away the thought; he's not about to get lost in imagination when he has Jon right here, light but solid and warm against him.

He lays Jon down in the bed and lies down beside him, gathering him close. Jon hums and shuffles even closer, making Martin's heart pound in his chest. He wants to shower Jon's face with kisses. 

It occurs to him with a start that that might, in fact, be a possibility. "Jon? Can I kiss your face?" Jon might have a hard time saying _no_ , but he can't convincingly say _yes_ either when he doesn't want something. 

Jon nods. After Martin presses a kiss to his forehead, cheek, and chin, however, he shrinks back.

"Alright," Martin says. "No more kisses." Jon makes a content noise and cuddles close again. Martin rubs his back. He hates and loves how fragile Jon feels when he touches him, the obviousness of bones under skin. Jon feels like someone who needs care. Martin loves to take care of him, and hates that nobody's done it before. 

(He's being unfair. Georgie-- he doesn't want to think about Georgie right now.)

Jon shoves his hips closer still, makes a humming sound, and Martin is startled to feel a hot, hard length pressing against his thigh. Jon strains and rubs against him, unthinking.

_I could have him in my mouth_ , Martin thinks, and heats up all over. He exhales, struggling to keep a level head. "Jon? Can I suck you?"

Jon obligingly lies down on his back, legs spread, obviously hard inside the tracksuit bottoms he wears at home. Martin pushes those down and pulls Jon's cock out, mouth watering. He's never seen or touched Jon there before, and the intimacy of it is intoxicating. 

The way Jon smells, though -- Martin loves it. He's quite fond of sucking cock in general, and Jon's is as elegant as everything else about him, long and slender. It fits nicely in Martin's mouth. He swallows around it just because he can, just to feel Jon down his throat.

The moment he takes Jon's cock in his mouth, Jon starts twitching. Martin looks up to see Jon leant on his elbows, smiling faintly, a curious look on his face. When Martin swallows, that look contorts into pleasure.

Martin had had some worries that Jon's sounds of pleasure might sound the same as his nightmares. They don't, not at all. Jon in a nightmare makes small, desperate whimpers. Right now, Jon is groaning, deep and satisfied, resonant. It's every bit as beautiful as Martin had hoped. 

It should be enough, but Martin's not satisfied. He pushes Jon's legs onto his shoulders, spreading his nether cheeks with two thumbs to expose Jon's hole, tiny and clenched shut. "This alright?" Martin barely recognizes his own voice, thick with arousal.

Jon nods and licks his lips. His eyes seem pure black. 

Martin dives into him with a groan. He can't lick inside Jon, he's too tightly closed, but the noises Jon makes when Martin laps at him are wonderful. He moves restlessly under Martin's hand, so that Martin, concerned, moves away until Jon makes wordless sounds of protest and pushes him back. 

Martin resists. "Jon? Can you do a thumbs-up gesture for me?" Jon does. "So long as everything's good, keep your hand like this, okay? And if you want me to stop, tap me twice on the shoulder." Martin demonstrates. "Can you do that?" Jon answers with two taps, then holds his thumb emphatically up. "Alright. Back to work."

Allowed to move, Jon _thrashes_ as Martin teases him, breath coming in rapid staccato. Martin has to hold him in place. When he finally opens up enough for Martin to lick inside him, just a tiny bit, Jon makes sobbing noises that would be alarming if he weren't holding his thumb firmly up. 

Fuck, that sound is going to haunt Martin's dreams. He's looking forward to it.

Martin almost has Jon open enough to really tongue-fuck him when Jon tenses and shouts. Martin pushes himself up to realize Jon has taken his pretty cock in hand and come. Martin moans and squeezes his legs together, desperate for stimulation himself. 

"Martin?" Jon's voice is hoarse, uncertain. "Do you, can I...?"

"Just. Look away for a few minutes," Martin says, and as soon as Jon does Martin's shoving his own hand inside his pants, rutting against the heel of his palm. It's barely seconds before he's coming in white-hot pulses. 

He shoves himself up the bed. Jon doesn't seem inclined to come close anymore, which is a pity, but he traces a gentle finger down Martin's cheek. "I liked that," he says, dazed.

"Mm. Makes two of us."

"Are you sure? I didn't--"

"Hush," Martin says. "You were fantastic. Amazing. Ten out of ten, would happily shag again."

Jon's brow creases. "I don't know when it'll happen again. I have no idea why it happens when it does."

Martin thinks of Jon growing pliant with his arm bandaged, his hair brushed. "I might have a few ideas." He shifts slightly. "But it doesn't matter. If it doesn't happen, then it doesn't happen. This was still incredible."

"You're gonna run out of synonyms," Jon mumbles, eyes slipping shut. 

"That's okay," Martin whispers, his eyes following the line of a wisp of Jon's hair, lying across his forehead. "That's what poetry's for."


End file.
